A Bartender's Tale
by elenwyn
Summary: A certain, namless bartender in New York copes with Peter Petrelli's drunken ramblings about a mystery girl. “Her dad would kill me,” he whispered conspiratorially, “If he ever knew – absolutely murder me.” Paire one-shot.


**A.N: **Wrote this to try and get back into writing, exams have killed me recently. Just a little thing I thought up listing to Paolo Nutini, _Rewind._ The line, _"And I'm going from bar to bar"_, started this story off.

**Warnings:** Implied incest. You know the score. Also, Claire is around the 18-19 mark in this. Spoilers up to the end of S1.

**Disclaimer: **The only thing I own is the nameless bartender, everything else you recognise belongs to NBC and Tim Kring, sadly.

--

"And it's stupid, y'know? 'Cause I'll never have her. Never."

He emphasised his point by slamming his glass down on the table, "'Nother one, please."

The bartender nodded slightly and pried the empty glass from the man's fingers. He'd seen plenty of these kind of guys over the years, all lonely and desperate over the 'one' they'd never have. He'd turned into a pretty good listener as time had passed and, although this man really shouldn't be drinking much more, he had a wallet full of money, so who was he to complain?

"So, why will you never have her, bud?" The bartender asked, glancing up at his customer as he refilled the glass, "Got another man?"

A short chuckle escaped the man's lips, rolling his eyes heavenward and pushing the bangs from his eyes, "No. She's just inaccessible."

He leant forward slightly, looking around as if to check who was listening, "Her dad would _kill_ me," he whispered conspiratorially, "If he ever knew – absolutely _murder_ me."

The other man raised his eyebrows, sliding the refill over the counter, "Not your biggest fan then?"

His client considered the question for a moment, staring down at the glass in his hands and swirling the drink around, "Well, yeah…and no. Both of them are pretty scary, actually."

"Both of them?" Now the bartender was confused, or this guy was far drunk than he'd assumed previously.

"She's got two," The man nodded, "Two _scary_ dads who'd kill me. I'm not even supposed to have these kinda feelings, man. But what are you to do?" He let out another laugh and downed his drink.

"Whoah, whoah, bud, I think you should go a bit easier on the alcohol, eh?"

Maybe the best kind of plan was to keep him off the drink for a while and get him talking more; he didn't want to be responsible for getting this man home afterwards.

The young man ignored him and held out his glass, "I've got money," Another laugh, "Always got a lot of damn money, just not enough to get what I want."

The bartender sighed and reluctantly poured him another, taking it as an opportunity to study his customer a bit more. He looked youngish, couldn't have been past twenty-five, with dark, floppy hair and brown eyes. Judging from his wallet and clothes, he came from a prosperous background. He felt kind of sorry for him, like he always did when these kind of clients came to his bar, but he was even more curious about this girl he was harping on about.

"I love her," he heard the man croak out softly, staring morosely at the floor, his bangs covering his eyes, "She – she loves me too, I think. I mean, last time she said…"

He trailed off, as if catching himself saying something he wasn't supposed to, "No, never mind. That was the last time."

The guy sighed, resting his elbows on the side of the bar, looking so utterly depressed that the bartender wished there was something he could do to help, "That was the _last_ time," he repeated miserably.

"Going behind her parents' back to see her then, eh?" The older man questioned, not unkindly, "Maybe if you just tell them the truth it'd turn out alright."

"You don't get it," the man looked him right in the eye, a small flicker of a smile on his face; "I'm not _supposed_ to love her. It's wrong - wrong for _so_ many reasons…but I can't help it. I love her anyway. It's like we're – we're…" He fished for the right word, swaying slightly in his stool, "We're destined. Yeah, that's right. _Destined._"

"Well," the bartender began, sliding another drink over, this time _non_-alcoholic, (not that he thought the guy'd notice), "Usually if two people are destined to be together, they'll end up together, no matter what the outcome."

He rested his arms on the bar, taking money from another customer and placing it inside the cash desk, "Believe me, buddy, I've had plenty of guys like you come in and out of here over the past few years, but I've taken a liking to you, not to mention the fact you've been the cause of half my profits tonight, so I say: go for her."

The other man smiled, lifting his head up. He looked as though he was about to reply before he froze suddenly, looking across at the entrance as if he'd seen someone he recognised.

"Pete!" The bartender heard a voice call out across the crowded bar, packed as it usually was on a Saturday night, "Jesus, Pete, we've been looking all over for you."

A man came into view, wearing a sharp suit and an expression that personified, 'if looks could kill'. Trailing along behind him, the bartender registered, was a young blonde, her beauty easily noticeable even in the dim lighting. He wondered if this was the woman – girl, as she didn't look past twenty – this 'Pete' had been speaking of.

"Claire came over crying about how you two had argued and you'd stormed off somewhere," the smartly-dressed man exclaimed, jerking his head vehemently in the aforementioned girl's direction, "I know you two haven't been getting along recently Peter, but for Christ's sake, she's my daughter, so you're going to have to get used to –"

"Don't I know it," Peter interjected grimly, taking a look at Claire, who deliberately kept her eyes to the floor.

The man sighed, rubbing his temples, "Pete, you're my brother, and I love you, but sometimes you're damned near impossible, you know that? What do you think the papers would say if anyone else had found you here – Claire, help me get him up."

The girl obeyed wilfully, offering Peter her hand to help him off the stool, and it was then the bartender grasped who this man was. Nathan Petrelli, the new Congressman for New York.

Nathan must have realised how noticeable he was at exactly the same time, as he cast a furtive look around before slipping the man a 50 bill, "You never saw this, ok?"

He nodded and tucked the 50 in the pocket of his jeans, "He was going on about some girl, Mr Congressman, Sir. Thought he might've needed someone who was a good listener."

"I appreciate that, Mr," the Congressman replied, glancing around resignedly at the glasses that littered the bar, "My brother's going through…a lot right now, so if you just keep this to yourself, I'd be much obliged."

Nathan smiled brightly, his politician's grin blinding, before slipping on a pair of shades and following the other two out the door.

The bartender let his eyes follow them as they made their way across the street, particularly interested in the interaction between Peter and the girl as she helped to keep him standing, arms draped around each other as he rested his head against her shoulder.

"Well I'll be damned," he murmured, watching as the politician caught up with them and the two sprang apart, "He wasn't joking when he said she was inaccessible."

Still, he pondered, beginning to wipe down the side of the bar as the three disappeared from view; destiny was destiny, even when it was a bitch.

He just hoped that he'd never have to deal with a Petrelli in his bar again.


End file.
